Wishful Thinking
by AyYouFiction
Summary: Arya's come to King's Landing for a week to see her sister. She doesn't want to spend the entire visit shopping and attending elite parties as her sister wishes her to. Perhaps an escort can make the trip just a little bit more bearable.
1. Chapter 1

_This story is based on Pretty Woman._

* * *

The flight to King's Landing set the tone for the whole trip. Thanks to some confusion with the meals, Arya ended up with the chicken platter where the "chicken" was questionable at best, and the person sitting next to her had the annoying habit of humming out of tune.

To make matters worse, her luggage was lost. That in and of itself wasn't a problem, they would eventually find it. The problem was that Sansa was all too eager to offer help. "Well, since you have no clothes, then we'll just have to do a bit of shopping."

This was exactly the circumstance her sister could have hoped for to persuade Arya to wear dresses and heeled shoes, when there was nothing but jeans and t-shirts in her bag. She really misses her bag.

"The are the cutest boutiques between here and your apartment," her friend Jeyne Poole chirps. "Oh, it'll be so much fun!"

The two begin to walk away, practically forgetting the very person they'd come to the airport to retrieve, but Arya prefers that they walk ahead. The truth of it is that she hopes they'll forget about her entirely. Yes, she came to the city to spend time with her sister, but if it means an entire week of shopping, then she's ready to take the next flight back to Winterfell.

With her suitcase lost and no clothes but what's on her back, that's exactly what she's in for.

"No luggage," Sansa mutters to a tree of a man with a scarred face and scruff along his jaw. He sneers and turns to slide back into the limo, leaving Sansa and Jeyne standing and waiting for something that will never come, for someone to open the door for their privileged asses. Jeyne makes an exasperated sound and opens the door as though it were a chore.

"You know, Sansa, you really need to get better help than this," Jeyne says when Arya plops in the seat next to Sansa and loud enough for the drive to hear.

The only answer is a sound that's so low, Arya barely hears it. She wonders if her sister meant for anyone to hear it at all. "It's fine."

"We're going to the shopping district," Jeyne tells the driver, and he shifts the car from park to drive before Arya can get the door fully closed behind her. It's fifteen minutes of listening to Sansa and Jeyne go on and on about what clothes would be perfect for which event and the car finally comes to a stop. This section of the city has cobblestone streets and brick sidewalks, all immaculately maintained for wealthy shoppers to travel on foot from store to store. There are boutiques as far as the eye can see, those obviously overpriced shops with their stuck-up staff at the ready to cater to Sansa, her friend, and most importantly their heaps of spending money.

The first shop is filled with white and cream and puffs that makes Arya's stomach heave. Jeyne suggests a frilly gown of gauze that looks more like a wedding dress than a evening gown. One look at it and Sansa's eyes slide to Arya, and her sister shrugs. By the second shop, the one worse than the first with nothing but various shades of pink, was when Arya began to devise her plan of escape.

The shoe shop filled with heels of all heights Arya wasn't willing to wear was the perfect place for a getaway. There were so many people and being the shortest person around, she slipped into the crowd and out the door while Sansa and Jeyne gushed over a pair of pumps that "would go so well with the pink dress."

She was down the road by the time she heard Sansa and Jeyne calling for her, and so she ran…and ran…and ran until the neighborhood changed. The streets were no longer immaculate and the shops were no longer pristine and pompous. No, these shops had seen better days perhaps decades ago with their worn signs and thick layers of grime. The people walking on the sidewalks weren't meandering with heavy wallet and expensive purses. No, these people walk with purpose. They have somewhere to be and that's where they are going. If they need something, they will go into the shabby shops to get it and nothing else.

Instead of the classical music casually drifting out of the boutiques, there is the blaring sound of music, modern music with its hard beats and furious tempo. This is exactly where Arya wants to be. She even follows the music which leads her to the sign made of wood that had to have been older than her, her father, perhaps even her grandfather. The wood has been bleached by too many years unprotected by the sun, and the painted letters have faded long ago. Still, Arya can just make out the words, "The Peach."

Behind the unassuming metal door painted black is a great room shuttered from the daylight outside. The only light are strobes and beams that spray everywhere in time with the music.

The current song is upbeat and light, something Arya's heard on the pop station a few times, but nothing that offends her senses. She sits at one of the unoccupied tables and looks around, noticing how the beads against the curtains of the stage sway. Around her are mostly men, with the odd cluster of women, and Arya's satisfied that her sister would never be caught dead in a place like this. It means she's safe for a time.

The song changes to something with a heavier beat and the curtains of beads separate to reveal a man with shaggy black hair that hangs way past his brows. He flips his head back to clear the way for his eyes that are even bluer than Tully blue—the color most of Arya's siblings inherited from their mother.

"Like what you see?" a woman's voice breaks through the blaring song with a tray in one hand. She places napkins on Arya's table with the other. There's something about the woman that's familiar but Arya's sure she's never met her. And then the woman explains everything when she adds, "My brother's one of the best dancers here…next to me." Arya gets a wink with her explanation before the woman asks for her order.

She doesn't want to drink, but she doesn't want to leave either, so she orders a beer which is something she can nurse for a long while.

He continues to dance on the stage, surprisingly agile for a man as wide with muscle as he is tall, and her drink arrives minutes later. The woman swishes her curly black hair all the while her blue eyes, the same blue as her brother's, flits between the stage and Arya with a mischievous smirk.

Arya's not sure what to make of the woman, but when the man finishes his set and heads back all the while picking up the articles of clothing he'd taken off on stage. His sister calls to him from the side and he takes the steps down and off the stage instead. They're talking, and her head tilts in Arya's direction before he turns his head.

There's something in the way he struts towards her. It exudes too much confidence as though he's trying too hard, which makes Arya curious. Why would a man that size, that build, not be confident in his own skin. He's undoubtedly strong.

Without asking, he sits at her table and his eyes land on hers. There's a smirk on his face, not the same one as his sister's but one that feels as though it's a mask that he's putting on just for her. "So my sister says you like what you see?"

At that, Arya rolls her eyes and exhales a sound of exasperation. Whatever game they're playing, she's not playing it.

"Can't undress fully during the day. Those are the rules in King's Landing. But for a price, you can see it all for yourself." There's a struggle within her to either bark out a laugh that he just said that, or gasp in shock that he's a prostitute. She'd heard about strippers taking their job to the next level, but she'd never seen it for herself. Eventually, it was the bark of laughter that won out.

It's effect was immediate. The confidence the man exuded faltered for a moment, only a moment before he glanced back at where his sister stood, collecting whatever was left of his ego and pride and hid behind the grin he wore before…that mask he hid behind.

"I can tell you that if you take me home with you, you won't be disappointed." The way his eyes dart down to his lap makes it more than obvious what he means, and Arya rolls her eyes at that too.

"Please," she scoffs and turns her head to look at the next person to walk onto the stage. She's a busty thing and it's a wonder how she can remain upright while swinging those around.

Suddenly, Arya has a thought that's as scandalous as when she decided to date Jaqen H'ghar, almost twenty years her elder and the son of the most notorious crime lord in Westeros.

"On second thought, I think I will require your services."

A smile spreads across his face, and he stands from his chair. "Then let me get dressed and we can go."

She watches him leave her table after she nods, and he stops for a moment to give his sister a look before disappearing behind a curtained door to the side of the stage.

His sister stands there and locks her eyes on Arya, that grin reappearing slowly as she makes her way to the table with Arya's check in her hand. "You won't be disappointed," she says, setting the piece of paper on the table before spinning around and leaving, her black curls bouncing as she goes.

Arya knows she won't be disappointed because the plan is solid. Sansa will be shocked to see her sister with a stripper/prostitute. And even if she isn't there, the staff at the hotel—most likely swanky and obnoxious because Sansa arranged the reservation—will be horrified to have such a visitor. What will they do then? Turn away a Stark?

She leaves a silver bill on the table just when the man comes out from the back. His jeans are worn but not by some designer or manufacturer trying for a look but because he's probably had that pair for more years than he should. It doesn't matter with the way it hugs against his narrow hips and muscular thighs. Even though he's nothing but a way to get a reaction out of the people around her, she can't help but notice how well he wears the t-shirt tucked neatly into his jeans.

The moment he stops at the table, his eyes drop down to stare at payment and tip, the crisp copper star. His eyes go wide and immediately race up to find Arya's. There's shock and a little bit of awe there before he reins them in for a more casual look. "Ready?" he asks, and Arya nods. Both walk out of the bar while the man's sister holds the money in her hand. No one in this neighborhood pays with stars. People in this neighbor have barely ever seen one let alone spent one in a bar. She smiles in the direction of where her brother leaves with the little rich girl and thinks they might be able to pay rent this month.


	2. Chapter 2

Arya stands outside of the Peach with the dancer. His thick, muscular arms are on display thanks to his t-shirt and there's no doubt that this man is strong and fit.

He looks from one end of the road to the other expectantly, but then seems to have had enough of waiting. "Do you have a car?"

"A taxi. Didn't you call one for us?" she asks him, and a smirk appears on his face. It's as genuine as she's ever seen on him. Stepping to the curb and placing two fingers at his lips, he emits a piercing whistle that reaches throughout the street. Like magic, a car stops in front of them.

It isn't one of those iconic yellow and black taxis that are standard throughout Westeros, but it has the company info displayed prominently on the front passenger door, which brings some comfort. Arya's pretty sure they're a legitimate service, and she won't be kidnapped for ransom or worse.

The man opens the door and leans a little forward, his blue eyes bright, as he sweeps his arm in a gesture for her to enter the car first. "A ride for m'lady," he says and that raises her hackles.

"I'm not a lady," she tells him firmly while sliding into the backseat of the taxi. Arya ignores the smirk that still resides on his face as he squeezes in behind her. It's hard to ignore the sound he makes when she tells the taxi driver the name of the hotel where Sansa had reserved a room for her weeks ago.

"You know, when a woman pays with silvers and expects taxis to be called for her…here…in this part of the city, and she's staying at the Red Keep, the most expensive hotel in the city, I'd say she's a lady."

Folding her arms across her chest and digging her back deep in the seat cushions, she growls at him, "Piss off! I'm not a lady, you cunt!"

"Seems I was wrong," he says, but it doesn't sound like he thinks he's wrong, and Arya could swear there's a hint of amusement in his voice.

They don't say much for a while, which Arya uses the time to check her phone. Ten text messages from her sister, two from her father and one from her mother. They all boil down to one question: "Where the fuck are you, Arya?"

"I'm fine. I'm on my way to the hotel," she texts her sister. "Make sure you calm mom and dad down since you had to worry them."

If it wasn't her favorite phone, she would've thrown the thing out of the window. Sansa had no right to involve their parents. She escaped her sister's shopping frenzy fair and square, and calling in the refs was just being a cry baby.

The phone lit up again, probably Sansa's response, but she was distracted by the masculine voice next to her. "So what should I call you?"

His blue eyes catch the light of her phone in the dark back seat of the taxi. There's something about them that hold her in place. "Arya," is the only name she gives him because she's not ready to offer more.

He's satisfied with the one name, and it's a relief. The men she's used to, nobles and the sons of wealthy families, always want to know the last name. It's the mark of whether they'd give you the time of day or not, so it's refreshing to not be judged by her surname, to not watch his ears perk and his head fill with thoughts of a good match for his house.

Instead, he simply nods and looks out the window, watching the buildings pass by and becoming more well-maintained and expensive-looking. There's almost a dividing line where the buildings change from broken down and grimy to immaculate and fancy, and his eyes absorb it all with barely hidden wonder.

"So what should I call you?" Arya decides to ask him, and he turns his attention away from the window. The mask is back up with the insincere smirk. "Anything you want to call me," he purrs, resting his hand on top of hers.

Her eyes drop to where they touch, then lift to meet his eyes. "You know, that's no help," she grumbles, making a show of jerking her hand from under his. The mask disappears and the way his brows furrow deeply looks like he's thinking, and that mayhaps the effort hurts him. Arya wonders if he's going to sprain something before he finally regains his composure and says, "It's Rodger."

There's a sound that escapes her lips before she can stop it. Not for a second does she believe him, but if he wants to go around being called _Rodger_ , that's fine with her. It really doesn't matter what his name is so long as the people at the hotel are sufficiently scandalized. The most expensive hotel in the city? Most likely filled with nobles and wealthy families. Arya wonders what they will think when they have a stripper walk into their lobby. Most of all, Arya hopes, no, prays that her sister and Jeyne will be there to see him.

The taxi stops at a structure that's power red, towering and impressive. It rests atop a hill looking down upon the entire city, a combination of metal, stone, and glass that must have been designed by the finest engineers Westeros has to offer. There's no need to see the other hotels in King's Landing to know that this is the best hotel in the city.

A doorman opens the door to the taxi's backseat which takes _Rodger_ by surprise. His fists clench and the heavy muscles along his exposed arms tense and ripple underneath the t-shirt; he's ready for a fight. It's the first time Arya realizes that he's nervous, wound tightly and so she decides to take a gentler approach with him, resting her hand on his shoulder. This causes his head to snap back to her. "It's okay," she soothes. "He's here to help us out of the car."

Arya can see the muscles of his jaw and neck visibly relax, but there's a flush of red along his neck and blooming into his face as his fists unclench. "Oh," he whispers without meeting her eyes.

He slides out of the taxi, and Arya follows after paying and tipping the driver. _Rodger_ stands at the doors and looks up, trying to get a glimpse of the top of the building, but it's no use. The top of the hotel is too high and the evening is too dark.

"Come on," she motions to him when the doorman opens the front doors for them all the while gawking at _Rodger_ in his old jeans and threadbare t-shirt. The doorman glances at Arya who dishes out a cold glare, daring the man that couldn't be much more than a couple of years older than her to stare longer. He doesn't which is a good choice for him.

There are a few people in the lobby. Not the great scandal Arya had been hoping for. And the staff consists of the doorman and two men behind the front desk. One is an older man who looks a little to gruff and worn for an establishment such as this, but he's all business and professional as his eyes scan the screen in front of him.

The other man behind the desk wears uniform crumpled over his heavy frame, sneaking a bite of a pastry that's hidden behind the reception desk.

Arya walks up to them, and neither pay attention to her standing there with _Rodger_. She's dressed in jeans and a t-shirt as well, but nowhere near as used as his and hers is designer to boot, but the effect of standing next to _Rodger_ must make her garments look rather shabby.

It's not as though the men hadn't seen them enter, their eyes were on them the moment they stepped through the doors, so ignoring them now is more of a statement that says she and her companion don't belong.

But Arya's a Stark, and if nothing else, that name comes with certain privileges such as setting the snobby hotel staff straight. Her hand slaps down flat in front of the elder man, but it's the pudgy one who jumps, startled by the movement and sudden sound.

The older man, however, lazily looks up from his screen to lay his eyes level with Arya's. "How can I help you this evening?" he asks, but it's not pleasant or friendly.

"I'm here for my room," she tells him, straightening her body to its fullest height, even it isn't that much to speak of.

"Oh?" he says to her, the disbelief dripping from the one word. "Let's just see about that. Name?"

"Arya Stark. My sister, Sansa Stark reserved the room for me," she says, shamelessly emphasizing their well known surname with the confidence of a born and bred noble. Arya doesn't miss the way _Rodger_ 's back goes rigid at the sound of her full name, or the way his eyes nervously look around the lavishly decorated lobby like a frightened rabbit looking for some hidden predator.

"Oh," the overweight man says with a gasp while the older one just eyes her from head to toe, his gaze lingering on her face before he returns his attention to the screen. "Yes, I remember entering that reservation myself," he mutters then eyes _Rodger_ again.

"And this is…" he studies _Rodger_ from head to toe, shamelessly rising on his tiptoes to get the fullest look at him, "your…" then cocks his head to the side, "brother?" From the man's voice and the cock of his brow, he doesn't believe it for a second, but Arya can tell it's more for her to play along, grasping for some thin excuse to give the other guests.

It's easy for these pompous jackasses to accept some rich kid rebelling against his fine upbringing by dressing like the smallfolk. All of the snobbery who stay in this hotel, those few in the lobby staring at that very moment, can accept an excuse like that, but Arya wants none of it.

"We both know he's not my brother," she says to both men behind the counter. _Rodger_ starts to look down at his scuffed sneakers.

"You know, I knew your father," the older man says, eyeing Arya as though that's supposed to mean something to her. Mayhaps he's trying to shame her into reconsidering having _Rodger_ as a companion for fear that her father will find out.

"Well then," she says to him, leaning in closer to him over the desk, "tell me your name so that I can tell him to contact you and say hello." The smile she gives him is from ear to ear. "Are we done here? I'd like to see my room, now. Or should I sleep in the lobby?"

It's a dare for them to refuse a Stark under any circumstance, and she half hopes they they do refuse her and their guests get an eyeful of a noble vagrant sleeping in their lobby.

The older man doesn't move, his eyes to hers for a long while, but ultimately, he's the one to give first. "I'm very sorry about the delay, my lady," the older man offers, handing a keycard to the heavy one who practically breaks his neck trying to free himself from behind the counter. His crumpled uniform looks even more disheveled in full view and he looks to be a little younger than _Rodger_.

Arya follows him to the elevators, keenly aware of her companion's heavy tread behind her. Part of her expected him to flee, telling her how the money wasn't worth the humiliation, and she wouldn't blame him one bit. But he doesn't. In fact, he doesn't say a word as they wait for the elevator to arrive or as they ride inside of it.

The numbers scrolling on the elevator panel reach double digits and still no one says a word. The only sound to break the silence is the elevator music selected for "refined" ears. All it does for Arya is make the hairs at the nape of her neck stand on end.

Somewhere around the thirtieth floor, she grows impatient and growls at the heavy man. "Are we anywhere near my floor?"

"Oh," he breathes, "your sister reserved the penthouse suite. They are the most expensive rooms we have."

Her hulking companion chuckles to himself, but it lacks any levity. "Rooms," he mutters, emphasizing the last "s" before folding his arms, shoulders hunched and leaning tot he side against the wall. "Highborns." The word is followed by a sound, more like a disgusted grunt before his head tilts back and his eyes roll closed. She can almost hear him say it: "Not a lady, huh?" She folders her arms and thumps her back against the elevator wall because Sansa had to reserve the most expensive suite in the most expensive hotel in King's Landing.

Arya doesn't look up again until her ears start to pop, and notices that the panel is still scrolling through the floors they're passing.

"How high does this thing go?"

"Sixty floors," the man says proudly, "It's the tallest hotel in Westeros." He straightens his uniform and smiles. He then remembers that she's a stark, a lady and quickly adds, "my lady."

"I'm not a lady!" Arya growls. She knows her frustration's not with him, but she can't help herself. At every turn, she's forced into the life of nobility, and she's had it with the "lady" bullshit. The man's eyes round into perfect little circles and _Rodger_ makes yet another noise before he adds, "Which is why we're going to your rooms." Again with the emphasizing the "s".

Before she can turn her wrath towards him, the elevator stops moving and doors open after a high pitched "ding".

No one says another word as Arya and _Rodger_ follow the man out of the elevator. There are only two doors at opposite ends of the small hallway. They go left. Nothing but freshly cut flowers decorate the walls which means they have staff to come and replace it everyday. Another sign of wealth.

The man slips the keycard into the reader and a green light appears. With a flourish, he pushes down on the handle and opens the front door. The place looks like every other hotel room her family's stayed in over the years, but the look on _Rodger's_ face makes her take a second look. He's in awe just by standing in the middle of it all, absorbing every bit of it with his eyes.

"Is all to your satisfaction, my la…Miss. Stark," he quickly corrects himself, and Arya nods, digging into her wallet to hand him a tip. It's two copper groats. Doesn't her father always tips with groats? A smile spreading across the man's face and his eyes rounding again makes her wonder if this only solidifies how much of a rich lady she is. When she looks over at _Rodger_ , his raised brow confirms it.

"Oh, my. Well, my name is Rodger and if you need anything, just call for me, my la…Miss. Stark," he says.

She all but ignores him, thinking to herself that _he_ looks like a Rodger. When she turns back to _Rodger_ , she's even more convinced that her companion's name is anything but.

Arya starts to walk towards the door. It's what her father always did to signal to the staff to get the hells out. Rodger's at the threshold when Arya remembers that she's starving. "Oh, Rodger, we'd like two servings of steak and potatoes."

"Yes, m'lady," he says, and any calm she's managed to gather vanishes in a puff of smoke. She slams the door in his face.

As uncomfortable and amazed Rodger is, watching her reaction to being called a lady makes him laugh loudly, honestly. For some reason, she likes the sound of it…a lot, but that doesn't stop her from scowling at him and grumbling, "What are you laughing at?"

"You're Arya Stark. Your father's a lord. You live in a castle. You _are_ a lady."

"Call me that again and I'll kick your ass."

"Your dime," he says, holding up his hands in surrender, "your rules."

She rolls her eyes at him, but he seems unfazed by her reaction. He starts to walk around the sprawling room, gliding his fingers over the fluffy white upholstery of the expensive furniture, exploring the adjoining rooms, making some comment about how the bathtub is so large even he can lay in it.

By the time he comes full circle around the room, there's a knock on the door which makes Arya look up from her phone. She hadn't truly read her messages, she'd just skimmed over them in the taxi. Now that she had read them fully, she was even more pissed with her sister. Her parents were very worried.

 _Rodger_ being much closer to the door, Arya shrugs and turns away when he looks at her to answer it. "You do it," she says, going back to reading her messages.

With a sigh, he opens the door and in comes a woman with a rolling table. It's draped in a wispy white cloth and topped with two silver serving platters covered with silver domed lids.

Arya mindlessly pulls out the money from her wallet, still reading.

"That's a star!" the woman who'd quietly brought the table into the suite says first words in shock. Arya's eyes lift and dart to the woman's hand. "My fault. I guess it's your lucky day."

The woman doesn't have to be told twice. She backs away and out of the rooms, closing the door behind her as quickly as she can before Arya has a chance to reconsider.

"Must be nice not having to care about mistakes like that," Rodger grumbled.

"Do you have something to say?" she asks him to which he does nothing but roll his eyes and sigh. "No. Your dime, your rules. Speaking of, when are we going to get going. Time is money."

"I'm hungry." Arya reaches for one of the domed lids and lifts it, inhaling the scent that's already making her salivate. It's the truth, she hadn't eaten since the flight and that was a sad experience too, but there are other reasons why she's delaying.

The truth of it is that when she invited _Rodger_ to come with her, it was only for the gag, shocking the patrons, her sister and Jeyne. She had no intention of using his "services" which leaves her in the situation she's in. What do you do with a prostitute in your room?

"You know, you don't have to feed me," he tells her as she sits down with her plate at the glass table near the balcony and gestures for him to sit in the other chair. "I'm not a stray dog."

Arya's ready to protest as he closes his eyes and shakes his head, but he beats her to it. "Look, can we get this over with. Then you can go back to your life," he says sweeping his arms out wide, "and I can go back to mine."

She could simply give him his money and tell him he can leave, but Arya likes having him around for some strange reason. He's surly and carries a chip on his shoulder the size of a direwolf, but gods help her she enjoys the way he says what he's thinking, especially now that he knows she's a Stark. With him, there are no expectations other than money, and it's so simple and so unlike what she's used to. It's refreshing which makes her like having him. And having that respite from the parties Sansa's sure to drag her to, and the nobles and wealthy that are sure to kiss up to her and jockeyg for a good match is something she will desperately need for the week.

Her lips are moving even though the thought hasn't formed fully in her mind. "You're so worried about time and money, how much for a week?"

He starts to sputter, and his eyes go wide. The idiot probably choked on his own spit. "Are you serious?" he asks between coughs, and Arya leans back on her chair at the table. "Wouldn't have asked if I wasn't. So how much?"

"Not even you could afford me for a week," he tries to carry a self-assured stance but Arya can see right through it. He's rattled by the offer. More than likely no one's asked him for such a thing. But he set the challenge causing her to raise her brows, more curious to know the amount he'll give her.

His brows scrunch together and his eyes darted around at nothing in particular making it abundantly clear he's at a loss for what to tell her, that he's thinking hard but coming up with nothing. She didn't want him to hurt himself, so she calls her own offer out. It's half of what father paid her weapons instructor in Winterfell.

"One gold."

Again, choking on his own spit. He doesn't allow himself the time to recover, coughing out, "Deal!"


	3. Chapter 3

_There will be a Gendry chapter every 3 or 4 chapters in._

 _This chapter has been edited lightly to accommodate this site's rating rules, to drop the rating down from Explicit to Mature. Most of the future chapters will be edited more heavily because of the nature of the story. Full version is over at AO3. To read that version, Google: ao3 6011107_

 _Added: Forgot to answer the question about money. At first I had a simple system in place that only addressed units 1, 50, 5000 (didn't think I was going to be specific about money), but after reviewing for this answer, I didn't like the gaps. So I_ _made use of asoiaf currency_ _and_ _reassigned the values, then changed what was needed in the chapters_ _accordingly. Sorry I can't thank you by name for making me put more thought in this, but thanks anon._

 _It's paper currency. Each bill is decorated with the metal its under. In units:_

 _penny 1 \  
groat 10 | copper  
star 50 /  
stag ... 500 \  
moon 1000 / silver  
dragon 5000 - gold_

* * *

The Cogans are fighting again. Could be money, could be drugs, could be she's caught him cheating again. With those two, it could be anything.

Gendy can't hear more than muffled, raised voices and the occasional thump and shatter of something hitting the floor or wall.

He should be angry. It's two in the afternoon, and he doesn't have to be up for another three hours, but he is thanks to those asses upstairs.

The muscles along his back are stiff and a good stretch is all he needs. Unfortunately, it means he has to get out of bed. For someone six foot five, most beds don't fit. He'd have to get something custom made and who could afford that? His nights are spent curled to fit or else have his legs dangle out. Just once he'd like to know what it's like to sleep in a bed with lots of room, something he hasn't done since he was fourteen, when puberty decided he was going to be the tallest fucker around.

Sitting up on the side with his feet on the floor, the springs squeak and moan under his weight. It's an old bed; he'd had it since he moved in with his sister, Bella. Who can afford to buy a new mattress just because it's noisy?

Looking around the room, it's a mess, but honestly, Gendry can't care enough to clean it. The entire apartment is a rat hole with its cracked, chipped ceiling and walls and splintered ancient floors.

There's a pair of underwear on the floor at the foot of his bed. He grabs them and slides them up his legs before leaving his room. It's their truce, his and his sister's. He won't leave his room naked and neither will Bella. The last time that had happened, Bella made it clear that she didn't want to see her brother's goods swinging in the breeze again, and he sure as fuck doesn't want to see his sister's again either. Sure, they see each other at work when they strip down for strangers, but that's different. Somehow they manage to keep work at work and home at home.

After draining his bladder, he looks around the living room and kitchen separated by what some would call a breakfast bar. It's more like a shabby half-wall, though. Bella's not around, but then he remembers that his sister sometimes waitresses for their strip club during the day. It's usually dead before nighttime all because of King's Landings rules against full nudity before six.

So no one wants to work the day. There's little money to be made, but Bella works because they have to. They need what little extra money they can get.

With that thought, Gendry opens the fridge door and checks the built-in butter dish. Just as he thought, her stash of insulin's low. The rest of the fridge is just as bleak. All that stands between a completely empty fridge is a bottle of ketchup.

He has three hours to waste, but there's nothing to eat and they desperately need the money for Bella's medicine. If he wondered what he was going to do with that extra time, he didn't have to wonder anymore. He'll just go to The Peach early, practice his new dance moves. Tansy'll welcome him with open arms because no one wants to work the day. And there will be free snacks laid out for customers that the dancers are allowed so long as they smile and flirt with the customers. Food and a little bit more money is never a bad thing. Besides, this could be his day. This could be the day he scores a drunk patron with deep pockets.

The shower turns cold, forcing him to turn the knob for more heat, and a few minutes later it turns scalding hot which gives him a good burn before he can turn it back down again. This is the way the water is in this gods damned building. It's bad enough the shower head only goes as high as his shoulders, forcing him to duck just to wash his hair, but for once he'd like reliable hot water. Just once.

And then there's the matter of taking care of himself. He's young, two and twenty, and if he doesn't take the matter in hand, he could very well end up with an erection on stage. It happens. Sometimes there's a pretty girl and it can have a mind of its own if not taken care of early.

The Peach is only five blocks from their apartment. It's a quick walk.

Just as he expected, the place is fairly empty. Bella's taking an order at the far edge of the bar, the darkest corner where the creepiest customers like to lurk.

Tansy appears from the room behind the bar, her office, and makes a beeline for him. "What're you doing here? Not supposed to be here for another two hours," she tells him in a stern tone but her eyes are dancing. They both know he's one of her best dancers and to have him on stage during the day would perk up the few customers she has.

"Tansy," he purrs because he also knows the older woman has a soft spot for him, located between her legs. "You don't need someone on stage between now and six?"

"You willin' to work both? Now and the night?"

"Of course, anything for you," he practically coos while pressing into her personal space, and he's sure his bulky mass is taking a lot of her space. "And the money."

Tansy swats her hand to his chest with a roll of her eyes before she walks away. The last thing he hears her say before she disappears behind her office door is, "You're up after Meshell."

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Bella's voice comes from behind. She has her hands on her hips, her serving tray tucked under her arm and an annoyed look in her eye.

When Gendry was six and ten, he found out that he had a half sister and ran away from the children's home to find her. It was hard not to see that they were related. Same black hair and electrifying blue eyes that they must have inherited from their mutual sperm donor, some wealthy, powerful ass who left as soon as the plus sign appeared on the pregnancy tests.

There he was on Bella's doorstep, a boy years younger but inches taller that she could call little brother. And she did with welcoming arms and tears of joy because she hadn't had family since her mother died of cancer a couple of years back. It was from that day on that Bella's taken it upon herself to play the mother rather than sister. She gave him seven hells when he decided to follow in her footsteps and take customers for more than a dance, but even she knew it was a loosing argument when they had to keep a roof over their heads and buy medicine for her and feed a strapping teenage boy.

Over the years, she's reluctantly gotten used to the idea of him selling his body for money. It's not like she had a choice. After the years and so long as he's not reckless, she even helps him along, finding him the women with a little more money to spare who aren't so bad to look at while he earns his extra wage. Bella's always had the uncanny ability to root the best ones out.

"What does it look like I'm doing, Bella. The Cogans were at it again," he sighs, throwing his duffle over his shoulder.

"Great," she groans and rolls her eyes, practically stomping away. She has every right. When the Cogans fight, they spend the night, the whole night, making up. Their bedroom is right above Bella's. She's going to be treated to the screams and moans of Mrs. Cogan, squeaks of their bed and the thumping of their headboard…all…night…long. Probably until the sun rises.

Gendry heads towards the back of the stage where the dancers prepare and tries to ignore that twist of jealousy in his gut. For all of their fighting, the Cogans love each other, and they love sex with each other. Sex isn't some job, some obligation to fulfill a service because money was given. He'll never have what the Cogans have: sex for pleasure, for love. It's all mechanical to him, just something to be done in the transaction.

Years of selling his body has kept him and his sister alive, but he's known since that first jane where his place was in the world. The red-haired woman paid him to have sex with her and four of her friends. It was more money than he'd ever seen in his life. How could he say no? But he could still hear their laughter, mocking his every unsure movement. There were four pairs of watching eyes with each of the five women he bedded, a constant four to witness his shame when he came too quickly or when he couldn't slide the condom on without fumbling. He had no idea what he was doing back then. He'd never been with a woman before and told them so.

After they were through with him, just before the sun rose, they shoved him out of the hotel room with his money and that's when he knew something died inside him. From that moment on, shame's a hard thing for him to feel. He knows he's broken, but with his work, it's best that way.

Dressed in his t-shirt and jeans, it's not the costume he intends to wear with his true show—a suit of cardboard spray-painted metallic to look like armor—but this is just practice.

Meshell's almost done with her dance. She's nowhere near as good as half the dancers in the Peach which is why she's given the day shift. She's off the stage at the last note of her song, and Gendry knows Tom's getting his song queued and ready. It's something a little Rock, a little classic, and a steady rhythm of drumbeats. That's what he needs for a good dance. It's something Meshell's never learned with her pop songs and much too rapid drumbeats.

He's on stage at just the right time in the song without an intro because Tom never bothers with introducing the dancers during the day. The curtain of beads still sways in his wake as he snakes his body to the beats of the song. He moves easily to the song because he's in his element. Ever since he was young, he loved dancing and even though he has to undress, he loves this job.

It's mostly men today, but there's one that has the look in his eye. It's the look of a man hungry for attention and a little adoration. Give him a little of both and Gendry may get a good payday out of it. Take him out and his pockets may go even deeper.

Yeah, Gendry's been with men too. They, more often than not, treat him a far side better than the women.

His eyes happen to slide to the other side of the stage where there's a girl at the table. At first, he wonders how someone under the age of six and ten could possibly be allowed into the bar, but then he notices the way she sits in her chair. She's on edge about something but it's not the nervousness of being caught in a bar like this underage. Then he reminds himself that sometimes they let the younger ones slip through during the day because the dancers aren't allowed to undress fully so it doesn't matter either way.

Bella walks up to the girl and says something that seems to startle her out of her thoughts. It even brings a slight flush to her cheeks before his sister leaves.

The song winds to an end which means so does his dance. Gendry leaves for the curtains, but Bella's at the bottom of the steps waving to him furiously. Bella never interrupts the end of his sets. It's when the spell of the music and dancing disappear and leaves him cold and alone in front of strangers and their prurient eyes, and all he wants to do is get the hells off stage and away from them.

But she seems adamant and she's never this way unless she's found a good, solid jane for him, one with deep, deep pockets.

"Oh, my little brother. I've got one for you," she says as her eyes drift over to the girl he'd noticed during his dance. He quirks a brow at his sister because she can't be talking about the girl who looks barely old enough to be in a place like this.

"How old is she?" he asks, and Bella smiles. "Old enough."

Her voice is certain and her eyes, identical to his own, are dancing. "Gave me her ID with her order. Perfectly legal age."

He rolls his eyes at that.

"Trust me, little brother. This one will have the deepest pockets we'll ever see in our lifetimes. If she were interested, I'd snatch her up, but I saw the way she couldn't tear her eyes away from you."

Looking at her again, Gendry isn't sure why, but his palms are starting to sweat and his mouth feels dry. Regardless, he squares his shoulders and heads to the girl's table, trying to exude the confidence he usually does. For some reason, this girl makes him feel like he's that inexperienced boy again with his first jane.


End file.
